Three  Knocks  That  Summoned 
I) il  in  the  Night  li  il 

By  MRS.  E.  C.  CRONK 


THREE  KNOCKS  THAT  SUMMONED  IN  THE  NIGHT 

By  Mrs.  E.  C.  Cronk. 

A young  girl  sat  in  Northfield,  Massachusetts.  In  her 
hand  was  a message  which  contained  sufficient  cause  for 
the  troubled  expression  on  her  face. 

The  message  summoned  her  to  come  to  India  to  see  her 
mother,  who  was  ill  out  there  on  the  mission  field.  Ida 
Scudder  did  not  want  to  go  to  India.  She  thought  almost 
resentfully  of  the  many  members  of  her  family  who  had 
given  their  lives  to  India. 

Her  splendid  grandfather,  Dr.  John  Scudder,  might  have 
been  the  most  prominent  of  New  York’s  physicians,  if  he 
had  not  read  “The  Call  of  Six  Hundred  Millions,”  as  he 
waited  on  a patient  in  New  York  City.  That  call  from  out 
of  the  darkness  and  superstition  and  suffering  laid  hold 
of  his  heart  and  drew  him  out  to  India  to  give  his  life  in 
self-spending  ministration.  His  life  and  work  had  blazed 
the  way  with  a trail  of  light  through  India’s  darkness,  and 
never  since  it  set  the  light  a-shining,  had  there  been  a day 
when  there  was  no  Scudder  in  India  to  keep  this  torch 
burning. 

One  by  one  they  had  come  back  to  America  to  be  edu- 
cated,— his  children  and  his  grandchildren.  One  by  one 
the  call  of  God  and  of  India’s  awful  need  had  drawn  them 
back.  Seven  of  his  children  and  fifteen  of  his  grand- 
children had  already  gone  back  to  India.  Ida  Scudder 
had  been  born  there.  Her  father  and  mother  were  there 
now,  pouring  out  their  lives  in  service. 

“It  is  enough,”  said  Ida  Scudder,  as  she  sat  in  Northfield 
with  the  summons  in  her  hand.  She  would  go,  eagerly, 
gladly,  to  be  with  her  mother  while  she  was  sick,  but  when 
her  mother  was  well,  she  would  no  longer  bury  herself  in 
India.  She  would  hasten  back  to  America  to  live  her  life 
as  other  girls  were  living  theirs. 

So  Ida  Scudder  took  passage  for  India  to  see  her  sick 
mother — only  to  see  her  sick  mother.  She  assured  herself 
and  her  friends,  over  and  over  again,  that  there  was  no 
danger  of  her  staying  in  India — the  India  that  had  already 
claimed  more  than  its  share  of  Scudders. 

One  night  she  sat  in  her  father’s  house  in  India.  As  the 
dusk  of  the  twilight  was  deepening  into  the  darkness  of  the 
night,  a knock  sounded  at  the  door.  The  girl  answered  its 
summons.  A man  stood  before  her.  He  was  a high-born 
Mohammedan,  tall,  slender,  white-robed.  He  bowed  low 
and  spoke. 

“My  young  wife  is  ill, — ill  to  the  death.  Our  doctors 
can  do  nothing  for  her.  Will  the  gracious  lady  come  to 
attend  her?” 

Ida  Scudder  knew  naught  of  medicine. 

“My  father,”  she  answered  eagerly,  “is  a medical  man. 
He  will  come  to  see  your  wife.” 

The  Mohammedan  drew  himself  up  proudly. 

“No  man  has  ever  looked  upon  the  face  of  my  wife.  We 


are  high-born.  I should  rather  a thousand  times  that  she 
should  die  than  that  a man  should  look  upon  her  face.” 

Silently  he  turned  and  went  out  into  the  darkness. 

Ida  Scudder  sat  down  and  thought.  She  was  in  India 
now.  In  India  with  this  pitiful,  unpitied  child-wife,  wh,t) 
might  be  dying  even  as  she  sat  and  thought  of  her.  How 
long  she  sat,  she  knew  not.  She  was  startled  by  a second 
knock  that  sounded.  Possibly  the  man  had  been  softened 
by  the  sight  of  the  agony  of  his  little  wife,  and  had  come 
for  her  father.  Eagerly  she  opened  the  door.  It  was  not 
the  same  man  who  stood  there.  Possibly  it  was  his  mes- 
senger. 

“My  wife,”  began  this  man  as  had  the  other,  “my  wife  is 
very  sick.  She  is  giving  me  much  trouble.  It  is  a pity 
that  a wife  should  give  her  husband  so  much  trouble. 
After  all  my  pains  she  may  die  unless  the  mem  sahib  comes 
and  heals  her.” 

The  girl  looked  at  him  hopefully.  Surely  he  could  not 
be  as  prejudiced  as  the  other  one. 

“I  am  not  a doctor,”  she  explained.  “My  father  is  a 
medical  man.  He  will — ” 

The  man  interrupted  her  with  a proud  uplifting  of  his 
turbaned  head. 

“I  am  a high  caste  man,”  he  said.  “No  man  dare  look 
upon  the  face  of  my  wife.” 

Even  as  he  spoke  he  turned  and  disappeared  in  the 
darkness. 

Ida  Scudder’s  thoughts  went  with  him  back  to  the  girl. 
Perhaps  she  was  only  a little  girl.  So  many  of  them  were. 
Perhaps  she  was  dying  even  now  because  no  man  could 
help  her  and  there  was  no  woman  to  help.  Something 
clutched  at  the  heart  of  the  American  girl  over  there  in 
India,  and  choked  her  throat  as  she  sat  helpless  and  un- 
helping. It  was  terrible  that  two  calls  should  come  in 
such  rapid  succession  on  the  same  night.  As  she  shuddered 
at  the  thought  and  the  misery  of  it  all  a third  knock 
sounded.  A third  man  came  before  her.  His  voice  was 
almost  eager. 

“My  wife,”  he  said.  “She  is  ill,  very  ill.  They  told  me 
I could  find  help  for  her  here — a wonderful  foreign  doctor 
who  has  done  remarkable  things.” 

At  last  there  was  a call  for  her  father. 

“Oh,  yes,  I will  send  my  father,”  she  answered  gladly. 

The  man  involuntarily  straightened  himself. 

“Not  a man ! No  man  shall  look  upon  the  face  of  my 
wife.  You  must  come.” 

In  vain  did  the  girl  plead  that  her  father  would  come. 
Sadly  and  alone  the  man  departed  as  had  the  two  other 
men  before  him.  Ida  Scudder  sat  down  again.  Were  all 
the  suffering  child-wives  in  India  calling  to  her  that  night? 
Was  one  of  those  endless  processions  she  had  read  about 
in  missionary  magazines  actually  going  to  march  by  her 
door  with  unending,  maddening  continuance?  Suddenly 
they  ceased  to  be  lifeless  statistics.  They  stepped  out  of 
the  cold  dull  type  of  the  statistical  reports  into  warm. 


living  flesh  and  blood — into  flesh  that  was  writhing  in 
agony,  into  blood  that  was  fast  ebbing  away. 

The  night  passed  on.  The  day  dawned.  Ida  Scudder 
walked  out  into  the  street.  As  she  passed  a gateway  she 
heard  wailing  and  loud  lamentation.  It  chilled  her  heart. 
She  knew  that  the  life  of  one  of  the  child-wives  had  passed 
with  the  passing  of  the  day. 

She  went  on.  At  another  house  the  beating  of  the 
musical  instruments,  the  shrieks  and  the  moans,  told  her 
that  a second  little  wife  was  dead. 

She  would  have  turned  back  sick  at  heart  but  a relentless 
hand  drew  her  until  she  stood  before  the  rude  bier  be- 
decked with  flowers,  which  was  to  carry  away  the  poor 
little  body  of  the  third  wife  whom  the  skilled  touch  of  a 
physician  might  have  healed. 

Unspoken  accusations  filled  her  ears  though  no  voice 
sounded  the  words  that  challenged  her;  “If  thou  hadst 
been  here,  these  would  not  have  died.” 

That  fall,  among  the  names  of  those  who  entered  the 
Woman’s  Medical  College  in  Philadelphia,  there  appeared 
the  name  of  Ida  S.  Scudder. 

She  had  heard  the  call  of  the  women  and  children  of 
India:  the  call  of  her  grandfather’s  love  and  of  his  life;  the 
call  of  her  father’s  and  mother’s  sacrifice.  Above  all  she 
heard  a call  which  came  from  the  lips  of  a Man  Who  hung 
upon  a Cross.  The  print  of  thorns  was  upon  His  brow.  Nail 
wounds  were  in  His  hands  and  His  feet,  and  His  side  was 
pierced.  The  Cross  seemed  to  be  transplanted  until  it 
stood  in  India’s  soil  and  the  voice  of  Him  upon  it  said,  not 
“Go  ye,”  but  “I  have  died  for  India.  Come  follow  me.” 

As  she  has  followed  the  Cross  into  India  Dr.  Ida 
Scudder  has  ’Drought  blessing  and  health  and  life  to 
thousands  of  India’s  girls  and  women.  She  passes  on  to 
the  girls  and  women  in  America  those  knocks  that  are 
summoning  aid  in  the  night.  The  night  is  dark  in  India 
and  we  have  light.  The  call  comes  not  from  three  only, 
but  from  three  hundred  and  fifteen  millions  of  India’s 
people.  They  appeal,  with  an  insistent  call,  for  some  to  go, 
and  for  all  to  give  and  to  pray. 

One  of  the  greate^it  missionary  enterprises  evei  underutken  by  the 
women  of  America  is  the  erection  and  equipment  of  the  Women's 
Medical  College,  at  Vellore,  India.  Dr.  Scudder  is  in  India  now  giving 
herself  to  this  work  with  unwithholding  consecration.  Government 
has  given  a large  tract  of  land,  and  American  women  of  all  denomi- 
nations are  uniting  their  gifts  and  their  prayers  to  answer  the  calls 
that  are  summoning  from  India’s  night. 

How  will  you  answer  ? 

Dr.  Anna  S.  Kugler’s  logical  argument  about  the  new  Union 
College  is:  “We  certainly  need  more  doctors  and  we  cannot  expect 
many  from  America,  so  we  must  make  them  here.  The  only  way  to 
do  this  is  to  have  a medical  school  for  women.  I certainly  think  our 
Boards  should  support  this  joint  project  to  give  more  doctors  to 
India,” 


Published  by  the  Cooperative  Literature  Committee  of 
the  Women’s  Missionary  Societies  of  the  Lutheran  Church. 
844  Drexel  Building,  Philadelphia,  Pa. 

Price:  2 cents  each;  15  cents  per  dozen. 


